


Bid Up, Mr. Bean

by apacketofseeds



Category: Mr. Bean
Genre: Gen, Misunderstandings, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14066772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apacketofseeds/pseuds/apacketofseeds
Summary: Mr. Bean attends a local charity auction.





	Bid Up, Mr. Bean

Bean’s morning constitutionals rarely had an intended destination. The high street always offered something of interest: the gallery displayed thought-provoking paintings; an odd-shaped tool might catch his eye in the hardware store’s inventive window displays, changing the course of his day to figuring out what it might do; the pet shop’s ever-rotating stock of furry, fishy and feathery things provided excellent entertainment. 

As he reached the town hall, usually home to bric-a-brac markets, Brownie and Girl Guide gatherings or council meetings, he stopped to read the banner above the open double doors. 

PUBLIC AUCTION TODAY   
Viewing: 9.00-10.00  
Auction: 10.30-11.30 

Bean read the banner, hands on hips, squinting in the glorious British summer sun. He wasn’t entirely sure what an auction was, but if it was open to the public it had to be worth a look; these things usually were.

Two white-haired ladies milled past, filing through the doors while chatting excitedly. In Bean’s experience, white-haired ladies were more likely to offer help, whether that help took the form of yelling and handbag-thrashing or gentle goading. Following close behind the pair, he observed them closely. 

The hall’s folding tables, usually stacked at one end, were arranged in long rows from one end to the other. Atop them sat an assortment of objects in neat lines, each labelled with a raffle ticket. When the ladies took a notepad and pencil each from a basket near the door, Bean did the same. 

The ladies began a slow route down an aisle between two rows of tables, inspecting each object. One of them lifted an ornament, turned it over, then put it back down while tutting softly. Once they’d moved along, Bean shuffled over to the same item. On closer inspection, the ornament took the shape of a young boy holding a fishing rod above a small, varnished pond. Lifting it, as the lady had, he found nothing but a smooth, unpolished base and an oval ‘Made in China’ sticker. Tutting and rolling his eyes as the lady had done, he placed it back down. 

Making an excited noise, one of the ladies clasped her hands before the table’s next item. She leant down, pushing her thick-lensed glasses to the bridge of her nose. Inspecting the raffle ticket, she jotted something on her notepad. 

Brow furrowed, Bean moved closer to her. The object, a small porcelain lion, was tiny in comparison to the fishing boy. Leaning in close, nose almost touching it, he studied its shiny surface and pulled a face, peering up at the lady as if she were foolish to show an interest in such a small, dull thing. 

“It’s Wade,” she said with a kind smile. 

Picking it up, Bean held the lion on his flattened palm and lifted it up and down. “About twenty grams,” he said before putting it back down. When he turned back to the lady she’d already moved on to the next table. 

Looking around, he saw the hall was full of people doing much the same as the ladies: looking at items on the tables and writing in their notebooks. It reminded him of the church fete the week before. A table had proudly displayed a large fruitcake wrapped in cling film and decorated with a bow. People went up to it, lifted it, then wrote how much they thought it weighed on a pad. Bean had a go himself, though he thought it rich he had to pay fifty pence for the privilege. 

“Ah!” he said, raising a finger as he grasped the purpose of the notebooks. He wrote his estimate for the underwhelming lion in his own: Lion: 20g

Hurrying down the aisle, overtaking the ladies, Bean looked at each item in turn, picking up those he liked the look of and scribbling down estimated weights: a set of plates depicting spitfires, a bronze letter rack, a tall blue vase with floral decoration, a crystal decanter set, and a pocket watch. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please!” 

A well-dressed, portly gentleman stepped up onto the small stage at the back of the hall. Raking a hand through thinning hair, he continued once the room fell silent.

“I’m afraid that’s the end of the viewing. On behalf of the church restoration group, I’d like to thank everyone who donated an item ahead of today’s auction. It’s a brilliant collection and I hope it’ll raise a lot of funds. Refreshments are available in the garden” —he gestured to the back door, which was propped open— “so if you’d like a tea or coffee, or a slice of Mrs Appleby’s delicious Victoria sponge, please do take advantage. The hall opens again at 10.30, when the auction will begin.”

Almost carried to the back door by the crowd, Bean decided it was never too early for a slice of cake. 

~

The hall’s interior changed significantly in the thirty-minute break. All the tables were replaced with rows of chairs facing the stage, which now housed a lectern. The stout man (who, Bean had since discovered from Mrs Appleby herself, was known as the ‘auctioneer’) stood behind it. 

As people took their seats, Bean rushed to the front row and made himself comfortable in the middle, confident. A hush descended when the auctioneer spoke from behind the lectern. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. I hope you enjoyed the refreshments. Without any further ado, the auction will now begin.”

In front of the stage, a smiling girl in a brown and yellow Brownie uniform held up the fishing boy ornament, presenting it to the audience. She looked thrilled to have a starring role in the auction, her long ponytail swinging from side to side as she smiled, baring a mouthful of silver braces. 

“May I draw your attention to lot one,” the auctioneer said, gesturing to the ornament in the girl’s hand. “This hand-painted china figurine portraying a young boy fishing.”

Bean tutted loudly, looking around to see if others shared his distaste, or, at least, the white-haired lady’s. The man sat beside him, sporting a thick moustache and even thicker horn-rimmed glasses, turned and scowled, so Bean looked forwards again. 

“Right, I’ll start the bidding. Who will give me one pound? Do I hear a pound ladies and gentlemen?” 

The man beside Bean raised a hand. 

“I have a pound! Thank you, sir. Do I have any advance on one pound?” 

Confused, Bean stared at the man beside him, cogs turning in his head. When he turned to Bean again, he scowled just as much as he had the last time.

“Two pounds!” a woman shouted from the row of seats behind. Bean turned in his seat to look at her sharply.

Suddenly, it all made sense. 

“Oh,” Bean said, eyeing the moustachioed man again and scoffing. “Imperial measurements.” 

“Any advance on two pounds?” The auctioneer scanned the room before picking up his gavel. “No? Going, going” —he slammed the gavel down hard, the loud, biting sound making Bean jolt in his seat— “gone, to the lady in the pink cardigan. Congratulations. And now, on to our next item. Lot two: a lovely, mint-condition Wade miniature of a male lion. If there are any collectors in the audience, this and lot twenty-two may be of interest to you.” 

Flipping open his notebook, Bean found his estimate for the lion’s weight: twenty grams. But the audience weren’t guessing in metric. He’d need to convert all his estimates. Tutting, he pulled a pen from his breast pocket and started converting the weights, working it out on his fingers. 

This could take some time.

~

“Lot thirty-two, ladies and gentlemen, the one you’ve been waiting for: this exquisite Wedgewood vase.”

As the enthusiastic Brownie girl held the vase up in both hands, a hubbub of noise filled the hall. Bean had written a guess for this one; it would look nice next to his bed. Now he’d finally finished converting his guesses, he was ready to try shouting one out. 

“This is a genuine piece of Wedgewood with iconic white relief on Jasper blue. It depicts a delightful forest scene and is in brilliant condition for a piece of its age. What a marvellous investment. Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you again that all proceeds from today’s auction go towards the upkeep of the church roof and bell tower. I’ll start the bidding at fifty pounds.” 

“Seventy pounds,” Bean shouted, pleased with himself. 

“I hear seventy pounds, thank you, sir. Any advance on seventy—”

“One hundred!” someone shouted. 

“I have a hundred on my right. Do I hear a hundred and fifty?”

Bean shook his head, aghast. It was impossible that the vase weighed more than seventy-five pounds. Clearly, the townsfolk were lunatics. “Seventy-five,” he shouted, bringing the number back down to something sensible. 

“One hundred and seventy-five! Wonderful. Do I hear two hundred? I have two hundred at the back there, thank you. Two hundred and fifty. Do I hear two hundred and fifty?” 

“Um, no,” Bean began, raising a hand to explain he’d wanted to estimate seventy-five, not a hundred and seventy-five. “I—”

“Two hundred and fifty to the gentleman at the front in the red tie, thank you. Three hundred anywhere? Three hundred?” 

The man with the moustache raised a hand. 

“A new bidder at three hundred, down at the front again. Thank you, sir.” 

Nudging the man with his elbow, Bean gestured that he should go lower. When he shook his head in response, he rolled his eyes. 

“I think that might be it,” the auctioneer said, scanning the room and collecting his gavel once more. “Are there any advances on three hundred? No? Three hundred pounds, then? Last chance, ladies and gentlemen.” He raised the gavel and this time Bean was prepared when it crashed down. “And it’s gone, to the gentleman in the front row. Congratulations!” 

A small round of applause erupted from the audience. Tutting, Bean folded his arms and shook his head. The winner was so far off. If only he’d been able to get a word in edgeways, he’d have explained.

“Ladies and gentlemen, lot thirty-three is our largest and, unfortunately, final item of the day.”

As the girl rolled a chest of drawers from the corner with difficulty, Bean straightened in his seat. He hadn’t noticed the chest when scouring the tables. His old drawers at home were falling apart, held together by yellowing Sellotape. These drawers weren’t perfect—decorated with cup rings and one handle missing—but if it was free to the closest guess, what did he have to lose? It had to weigh at least one hundred and fifty pounds.

“This…” the auctioneer began, almost sneering but managing to hold back his distaste, “MDF chest of drawers is… well, it’s a chest of drawers! Who will start the bidding at, say, five pounds?”

Excited, Bean sat on his hands, waiting to hear a few unsuccessful guesses first. When none came, he looked around to find a sea of bored, unimpressed faces behind him. Narrowing his eyes at the woman in the pink cardigan, she shrugged back at him. 

“Five pounds, anywhere? A starting bid? No?” 

Unable to contain himself any longer, Bean shot a hand into the air and announced smugly, “One hundred and seventy-five pounds!” 

Gasps filled the room. 

The auctioneer’s mouth dropped open. “A tremendously generous offer, sir! And I don’t think there’ll be any more offers.” After a quick glance around the room, he slammed his gavel down. “The chest is yours!” 

Bean chuckled with excitement. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d won anything. 

As the audience began to stand, the lady behind him patted him on the shoulder. Leaping from his seat, he rushed up to the drawers and began pulling them open, inspecting the insides and nodding, pleased with his newest acquisition. As he went to roll it away, the auctioneer leant down from the edge of the stage and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Sir? Payments are made just over there.” He pointed to a desk where people were already lining up, pulling money from their purses, pockets and wallets. The moustachioed man handed a pile of notes to the Brownie, now manning the till, and collected his vase. 

“Thank you again for your incredibly generous donation,” the auctioneer continued. “Especially after losing out on the Wedgewood. Saint Christopher’s is well on its way to getting that roof repair.” 

Mouth wide open, Bean’s mistake dawned on him: an auction is not the same as guessing the weight of a fruitcake.


End file.
